Long Curtains Poems
Long Curtains Poems. Below are the most popular long Curtains by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Curtains poems by poem length and keyword.
I wait for them to wake up
Those two sleepy heads inside
I’ve fixed a yummy breakfast
Shall I pull their curtains wide?
I just want to start this day
With my loved ones close to me
Yet most patiently I wait
For them the dawn’s light to see
I’m left to sit and ponder
All the blessings in my life
I am a doting mother
And honored to be a wife
We live quite a simple life
No trappings of luxury
But what we have is special
Quite grand in its modesty
God has granted us this life
Each one has dreams to fulfill
We have love that binds our hearts
And a God who makes storms still
We have a sweet home of praise
A little piece of paradise
I’m thankful for all I have
Wouldn't want it otherwise
Sure we have our own problems
And often times we just fight
But when it’s all said and done
We are blessed by heaven’s light.
Eileen Manassian Ghali
I have to crane my neck
the small coterie presses,
I am too short
for long distance seeing
walls tower over my eyes
like curtains.
“You have to see the hidden in the hidden”
The svelte tailored nose-whisper
expects me to know what he means.
I do, but I am not going to nod
and affirm his effete conceits
besides, I am only here
because of the rain.
I am still trying to step back
to take the image in
from a far view
but there are backs
and back-packs,
slow dripping rain hats.
Spectacles are steaming up
in the muggy ambience,
and he is droning
going to a place
where flowers in a vase
mark a post-revolutionary
something or other.
Now I can’t see it at all
perhaps it is hiding in its
hideaway
almost in front of my face?
I overhear
over damp overcoats
it being coaxed
into something more,
much more
than a few blobs of color
caught indoors
on a rainy day.
Goring down, shredding tears, I pule to,
give my prayer, to all family's and
friends, missing or gone, across this
blanket world, as her gusty winds flare,
and ragging rapids spill, these islands in
darkness, I will not lye here,
silenced, for she was,
"PLANNED" drapping curtains,
where our moon mysteriously a
lined itself, mutationally, reins, and
deploys,explosions of fear, I say,
don't give in, break her free, don't
be, A coward less coward, to their deceit,
and lies, these politicians, we call
democrats n' republicans, don't
really,give A RATS ASS, as long
as,they get voted, I ask stand for
what's right to your heart, therefore
she can not win this glory, and ask
your government why???? Priceless
lives pay, in A test on the country
so that they may have control....
That's the question.... But I will not
bow, I give my hand to the
innocence, of THE PEOPLE.......
To shelter them with love and blessings, that I
Rein.....For I shall ride A pon my black knight.....
As We defeat it, like a skyscraper...
Carma
10-30-12
Stepping onto the red carpet brushing away clouds silver shining
blue skies sweet surrender bathes with you beloved angel
Stealing one's breath away your love magically appears rose gold crowned
a superstar dazzles bathing within the liquid fountain of a soul adorned
Taking the limelight haunting shadows away warmly beauty invades space held
crystal clear light shining before the curtains raise applauding heartbeats bounce
A thousand dreams draped behind a vision portrait hanging on chamber walls
standing out one alone unique sparkle destiny whistles with the wind
Victory is found inside peace where the heart sets sunshine rises grace filled
kissing you softly whispers I close my eyes there you become a beautiful starlight
The night is early at 1900hrs. The Ferrari and McLaren have pulled up to the side of the street awaiting the red carpet (a sight and a future night sight). Coming out of the door is a bella donna with hair of fire, cheeks and breast of pale, eyes of blue light. While wearing a red dress, with her black purse in her hand, she takes my arm and walks with me (). In the lobby are donne and they are of beauty, well, the bella is the one that has lead me in, everyone else is just a donna della bella. . I hold her hand to my lips and kiss her hand and lean in for a kiss to her cheek. The lights are off and the seats are close. Red is the color of the residence hall. Her crimson smile makes me red. This is the peace I have been waiting for, waiting for a long time. Her wait is mutual to mine. We have waited for one another. We were both pure when we met. Now we are purely for one another. I am the dragon, she Is the dragon. We are the dragons that build our empire. I kiss her lips before we sit. The curtains are about to rise. This introduction to life is like an opera. Well, we are both at the opera, is not a life event. Why not share it with culture and the love of arts? What is culture without art? What is a man or woman with love if not the love to share with one another? I’m the concert master and she is my leading lady. Her name is Vittoria. My VIttoria Venezia Firenze (VVF). My VVF (WF). My wife forever.
Here at our rooftop, collegiate, ‘resort of the mind,’
an early heatwave has struck - we’ve been advised.
Like we needed it. It’s 94°f and climbing - we’re not insensitive.
We’re aware that the sun is bright and the air is crisp and hot.
It was Friday morning, until the sun pointed to noon.
Nothing’s going to stop the summer swelter except thunder storms
- which are on their way - we’ve been advised.
A seasonable tempest is being piped-up from the sea.
Like we needed it. We can see the far horizon’s shadowed billows
and curtains of rain - we feel the changing wind.
But we have every reason to be cheery, forewarned as we are,
here at the pool, in the still needed shade, armed with margaritas.
The weather may change, the season alter, but we will, unaltered, remain.
We seem to have captured a moment of buz. People are swinging-by,
dropping-in, bringing drinks and party snacks then lurking by the pool.
Fridays are 'sui generis'—magical—because they play tricks with time.
Dreary weekday landscapes seem to transform, as the old week wanes
and ‘the pert and nimble spirit of mirth awakens.’
(A purposeful Shakespeare misquote).
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Heatwave by Bronski Beat
Heat wave - Bing Crosby
.
.
I have a (FaceTime) Med School interview with John’s Hopkins on Monday!!
I'm duper nervous.
Longshanks drainpipe and whistle through the day.
pterodactyls got it easy in this wide-open sky,
they glide too far up to be real anymore.
The beady-eyed slinkers that wriggle under our plodding boots,
they also avoid the earthshaking heaviness of light sleepers.
Beyond the curtains, a plastic pelican
has got its bill and belly stuck on a satellite dish,
now we can only receive small-minded thoughts in a soup bowl.
Strong winds are disrupting sleep patterns,
static pictures can only take baby steps or crawly shuffles.
Leggy winds go out to play in front of green screens,
illusions, made to promote the good-looking and perky.
~
My thirst now deep ~ I long to quench
to sip this periwinkle wine
In goblets cut of harvest moons
impassioned pleas now cast of time
Tender kisses ~ sonnets placed
on fevered lips near rainbow streams
In golden castles made of sand
I've knelt beside you in my dreams
As whispered winds ~ I've called to you
before the dew of morning beads
and sunlight forms the northern star,
in measured breaths of tempted needs
In rustled leaves ~ I've heard your voice
beneath the dark where crickets play
That echoed through my aching heart
harmonic to the light of day
From mountain top ~ my vision soars
‘cross fertile valleys emerald green
In search of perfect precious love
amidst this beauty I have seen
Beyond the shades ~ of here and now
I've felt your breath beneath my skin
I've tasted sweet your tender smile
and felt the longing deep within
For in this mist ~ of moistened glow
the heart reflects on distant wing
In melodies of long ago,
desires silent evenings bring
With opal stars ~ I write your name
in shimmered streaks across the night
Where darkened velvet curtains fall
on windswept dreams of sweet delight
And now we stand ~ together pure
a' glow this jasmine moon above
Two fires of a single flame
among the rhyme of written love
Wishes fly ~ on silver whims
far beyond each silent cloud
As evening finds us lost again
in precious love forever vowed
~
At the estate sale, among the widow - things --
mourning brooches, teeth in a saucer,
a fur stole shedding its cloak of moths --
the mirror lay wrapped in black silk.
The auctioneer would not touch it barehanded.
Even through gloves, he held it
the way priests carry difficult relics: at a distance from the heart.
I bought it because it was drawn to the way it ticked.
Not loudly -- a patient little sound, delicate as an insect worrying the lid of a coffin.
The frame exhaled the smell of rain-rotted cellars,
mold climbing the ribs of old houses,
wet roots, photographs glued together by floodwater.
It showed no reflection. Instead: the room emptied of me.
My lamp furred over with dust.
The fern beside the window sagged into threads.
The chair beneath my living body rotted into its patient skeleton of wood and springs.
I watched snow collect through a crack not yet born in the ceiling.
And behind the black glass—
not mirrored, but embedded impossibly within it—
the silver pendulum swung. Left. Right.
A small immaculate metronome
keeping faith with something terrible. Hours passed.
The future in the mirror altered by increments.
When my pulse quickened, mold flowered darker along the walls.
When panic seized me, another century seemed to enter the room.
Neighbors claimed she fled.
But I think she simply reached the end of herself.
Because the pendulum is not measuring hours - it is spending them.
Each swing subtracts something minute and irreplaceable—
not seconds, but permissions:
one more breath, one more swallow of sleep,
one more astonishment of blood.
The mirror does not show the world after your death.
It shows the world as death prepares to remember it without you.
Tonight the pendulum has grown almost still.
In the glass, the dust has settled completely.
Even the curtains hang with the composure of the deceased.
And there in the ruined chair
sits the mirror alone, awake in the dark,
waiting for whoever next mistakes its ticking for a clock.
No one followed her as she ran away
fleeing from the altar on her wedding day
She’d been jilted by Jed her handsome groom
so locked herself away in an unused attic room
The bride’s father went after Jed with a gun
you should have seen the coward run!
The desperate search for Judy was in vain
She didn’t respond when they called her name
Folks assumed she didn’t want to hang around
Many years passed by and she was never found
The house was auctioned after her parent’s died
They were buried at the churchyard side by side
The new house owners were in for a terrible shock
When they ventured upstairs and unpicked the lock
They found Judy’s skeletal body in her dress of lace
Cobwebs hung like curtains from her once lovely face
Jed’s dust covered photo lay in her hand
Judy never got to wear her wedding band
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